


Broken Glass

by orphan_account



Category: Dishonored (Video Game)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-01
Updated: 2013-03-01
Packaged: 2017-12-03 23:02:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,999
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/703645
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lady Emily, now a full fledged Empress, has a brief but heated exchange with the Outsider, who seems as though he’s starting to lose his patience with her kind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Broken Glass

Emily stirred her tea, steeped far too deep for her liking and with much less cream than she preferred, but she wouldn’t say as much. She’d let the strange man with the black eyes make it, because he insisted. She smoothed the front of her blouse, setting the cup down on the table. She folded her arms, looking in any direction but that of the room in which she resided. It was her own bedroom, but at that moment in time it felt alien, unsure of even its own solidarity. It felt alive, twisted and curving along to some unseen rift, and it made Emily nauseous to think about. The window was wide open, offering up a pleasing view of the seas. Far off in the distance she could make out shapes of great frigates and whaling ships. She focused on those as she made for her tea again.

She didn’t hear any movement beside her but she was aware that he was now seated. Corvo had remarked once while they were on board a ship to Whitecliff that she was bizarrely sensitive to the Outsider’s presence. He normally never spoke of such things, but it had become apparent to her that he had visited Corvo the night previous. She felt the seas churn with anticipation and the edge of her vision felt cloudy and wrong. Whenever she’d tried to focus on something for too long, it started to change, to shift and expand and contract and twist and roll and tremble. She spoke to Corvo about this the next morning, and while he didn’t act surprised, his voice betrayed both his confusion and apprehension. He had told her many times before that if he ever came to her with his gift, she must not use it, no matter how strong the temptation.

It was different, now. Corvo had long since passed. The dainty white glove on her right hand now hid much more than delicate fingers. At least he had the courtesy of marking my wrist, she had mused with a black chuckle during her first experience in the Void. “So as to not rile your subjects,” he’d offered with a faint grin. She hated him. She’d hated him ever since she’d been a child. It was, of course, his fault that she couldn’t grow up with a strong, happy family as was befitting a young Empress. 

He had ways, attempts at making up for lost time. Sometimes he would come in the night and steal little kisses, on her forehead, on her eyes. He would tell her stories to lull her into a reluctant sleep (oh how she hated drifting off in his presence). Sometimes he would leave her a gift, a trinket given to him by a Pandyssian native in prayer and passed along to her in a very humanlike display of apology.

Sometimes she would wake up and find Corvo’s mask nailed to the wall opposite her.

Those were the nights she slept most fitfully, and the nights where she would sit up with the maids, making them tend to her as she tried to calm her twittering nerves. Those were the nights that reminded her why she hated the Outsider, and everything that he stood for. She was reminded that, under any circumstance, he was not to be trusted.

“You need me,” he had said one night, whispered in her ear on the tail end of a nightmare.

The more the days wore on, the more she realized he was right. She missed Corvo terribly. After his death she felt herself slipping deeper and deeper into the throes of insanity. She felt the strain of running a country on her own begin to tighten it’s vice-like grip around her senses. The nightmares got worse. When she woke in the dead of night screaming on the floor, twisted in her blankets and sobbing, with nothing but those hateful black eyes for comfort, she knew he was right; he was all she had left from the memories of a golden age.

When she accepted that, it seemed, he let her rest easy. The nightmares never stopped completely, but they grew less frequent. When they did occur she woke almost immediately to find herself cradled in his arms. He would whisper things to her in languages long dead, and she would drift away again, not quite peaceful, but placated.

She never did use the mark. She wondered many times if this offended him, but she would never dare ask. In fact, she preferred to keep conversation to a minimum whenever he made an appearance. Sometimes she would flat out ignore him, going on about her daily activities as though he didn’t exist. No matter how hard she tried, though, he was always waiting for her at the end of the day. Sometimes he didn’t say anything. Sometimes he would just watch her.

She felt today to be one of those days. Sighing, she drained her cup, placing it back on the saucer none too gently. She was very aware of his eyes on her, but she wouldn’t look his way or risk becoming ill. He did however, whisper something that she didn’t quite catch, but it made the hairs on her neck stand at attention. She cast him a wary sidelong glance, and he was smiling.

“Got your attention, have I?” She scowled, looking back out at the open water. He hadn’t touched his own tea; it sat steaming on the table before him, black and placid and bitter smelling. She wrinkled her nose.

“Have you brewed seaweed tea?” She thought that that sort of thing was only made in the east, where they lacked certain commodities and ended up making due with what they had, producing such bizarre and tasteless substances as what he was currently, well, not drinking. He only chortled in response, and there was a clinking of glass.

“You’d enjoy it if you tried it.”

“Never.” She conceded that he was probably right, but she wasn’t about to give him that satisfaction. She let him drink in silence.

The day was winding down, the night birds singing their slow, somber songs as liquid crimson starting painting its way down the sky. They had been sitting together for hours upon hours, having wordless, meaningless conversation. She debated with herself many times about getting up and just leaving, but something compelled her to stay. She wondered briefly if her stewards and maids were searching for her. It was a slow day for public affairs so she assumed they couldn’t have been too concerned. Her new royal protector was off on a brief trip to Serkonos to visit family, so it was probably for the best that she stay put anyway.

After the sun had dipped far below the horizon and Emily’s eyelids had grown weary with tiredness, the Outsider spoke. “I love you, you know.”

Emily froze, her insides feeling as they they were caught in a vice. “I beg your pardon?” She hazarded a glance at his face, trying to find something she could pick apart, some kind of feeling. She found only curiosity and a hint of amusement.

“The words feel strange on my tongue. You are always, and will ever be, a child to me.” He folded his arms. “I am infinite. It is unwise to form mortal attachments, and I am aware of this.” He looked thoughtful, but Emily thought if she squinted hard enough, she could see the barest sliver of sadness. His words were disjointed, disconnected, like he himself wasn’t sure of what he was saying. It threw her off and made her very uneasy. “Each mark is unique. You all are what keeps this world interesting.” He was now very clearly struggling.

“I don’t think I understand.”

“I don’t expect you to. I don’t think I really do myself.” He laughed, a startling sound, high and brisk.

A form of comprehension took root in Emily’s mind. She looked him square on, head cocked and eyebrows furrowed. “You’re lonely, aren’t you?”

“That is in no way what I said.” The table shuddered with his bite.

“That’s not what you said but that’s what you mean.” Objects were blinking in and out of reality but Emily paid them no mind. “You’re lonely and you’re frustrated because you’re a God. You’re immortal and you’re all powerful but you have nothing but the empty echoes of the Void to keep you company. This is why you mark these people… us. This is the closest to love you’re ever going to get, because the poor people you mark and reveal yourself to have no other choice but to love you back!” Her voice cracked as the levity of her words struck her.

“THAT,” the word bounced off the walls, magnified and trembling, and echoed into his next sentence, “is the FARTHEST thing from the truth.” Suddenly he was in her face, black eyes boring into her center, filling her with fear and rage and horror. Reality warped around them, settling into something grotesque and unfamiliar. She never took her eyes off his. “You think you’re so special, all of you. You’ve always got the answers to the big questions, haven’t you? I’ll tell you what,” his lips, part of a face that was anything but human, were uncomfortably close to her ear, “come see me when your precious city is in shambles and the decaying bodies of your loyal subjects crumble to dust under your feet, and everything you and dear Corvo worked so hard to achieve is nothing but a smear on the wall of history.” He grabbed her wrist, wrenching her glove off and tossing it by the wayside. “I’ve done what I’ve done to protect you and your ungrateful bastardization of a city.” He twisted her arm, yanking it out in front of her, drawing a yelp. “I never asked for thanks, thanks is what you pathetic excuses of meat dole out when you’re not too busy screwing each other out of a meal.” His hand clamped down on her wrist, icy hot and searing into her skin. “I never asked for your pathetic grovelling, your shrines, your poor excuses of worship, your revolting rituals, your sacrifices…” He withdrew his grip, and her mark was gone. He remained within an inch of her face, voice drawn down to a deadly whisper.

“Then what?” Tears were streaming down her face, and she clutched at her arm, trembling. “What do you want from us?”

For a moment, he didn’t say anything. “I am not a God.”

He was gone.

The world stopped spinning and Emily was on the floor. Her teacups lay smashed beside her. Tears still flowed freely, but found herself steeped in resolve. She examined her wrist, rubbed it, and sighed.

“My lady?!” There was a frantic knock and the door blasted open. A young woman stood in the arch, sword drawn. When she saw Emily’s state, she rushed over, skidding to a halt on the floor beside her. “Lady Emily are you hurt? What’s happened?”

Emily shook her head, brushing her off. “I…” She paused. “You’re home.”

The woman, concern written broadly all over her face, dismissed the statement. “Something told me to stay. Please, what’s happened?” She glanced quickly at Emily’s wrist and scowled. “It was him, wasn’t it. My Lady I’m not leaving your side tonight. I’ve had it with him and his visits, so help me-“

“He will visit whether you want him to or not.” She sighed. “It’s alright. I don’t think we’ll be seeing him again anytime soon.” She stood, relieved that she could do so without being fearful of losing her balance. “I am tired and hungry, Leona. Let’s get supper and we can talk of tomorrow’s schedule.”

She saw the protector out, pausing before leaving the room herself.

It still smelled faintly of seaweed, and she swore that if she looked long enough, the room would start to breathe as though alive.


End file.
